Honour
by psquare
Summary: "At the end of it all, what do we have?" A short exploration of how our Musketeers define honour. A smidge of d'Artagnan/Porthos at the end.


Just a short fic to stretch a bit; trying out their voices.

Set at different points through 1.08 and beyond.

**Summary: **"At the end of it all, what do we have?" A short exploration of how our Musketeers define honour. A smidge of d'Artagnan/Porthos at the end.

**Warnings: **Spoilers for the whole of the first series. A couple of anachronistic references, but given that they speak in modern English in the series, their speech is chock-full of anachronisms anyway, so.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything you recognise. Opening and closing quotes are from1.10: _Musketeers Don't Die Easily_. The King is quoted from 1.08: _The Challenge_ in the first section.

Please feel free to critique.

**_Honour_**

_'At the end of it all, what do we have?'_

_'No glory, no money, no love. None of the things that make life bearable.'_

d'Artagnan kneels in the middle of a muddy field and thinks_, I'm here. I'm finally here_. Eight months ago, he'd only ever heard of the Musketeers as legends, an aspiration unworthy even of a dream. He tended to goats and duelled with iterant wayfarers; he chiselled wood while sitting in sweet-smelling hay, dreaming of beautiful Bernadette, or Giselle, the thought of glory distant.

And yet—

Here he is, kneeling in front of the King. The sword ruffles his hair as it gently touches upon his shoulders, and for a single, terrible, traitorous moment, d'Artagnan rejoices in the death of the life he would've had, had he never left for Paris (_had his father never died_).

_I'm here, and I'm so sorry_.

Athos is kneeling next to him, strapping the pauldron onto his shoulder—an unfamiliar weight. The King smiles, says, _I would condemn you and your brothers to die in their sleep if I saw fit_.

d'Artagnan blinks. Sweat drips into his eyes, renders the world hazy and slow.

_—with the same distinction that I witnessed today,_ the King's saying, as if from the bottom of a deep well. And then he's leaving; d'Artagnan rises, draws the world in with a deep breath and lets it out, crisp and fresh and infinitely beautiful.

_In death, in betrayal, in sorrow—honour_.

He turns to embrace his brothers.

* * *

><p>Athos and Aramis straggle behind as they approach the garrison. They're talking in hushed tones, their horses at a steady trot, side-by-side.<p>

"What do you think's the problem?" d'Artagnan asks Porthos. "Athos seems rather upset."

Porthos glances back, then guffaws. "I don't suppose he much approves of Aramis' dalliance with Charlotte Mellendorf."

"Why not?"

"Seducing a lady when her father's a political prisoner condemned to hang?" Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Doesn't sound very honourable, does it? Takin' advantage of a lady when she's vulnerable."

d'Artagnan thinks of holding Constance in his arms, kissing her in the long, long afternoons when the weight of loneliness presses on her shoulders and draws lines around her eyes. Thinks of Jacques Bonacieux, bloodied and at her feet, while her lips still glisten with his kiss. "I suppose not," he murmurs, uncomfortably.

Porthos' eyes soften. "Of course," he says, "when it comes to love it gets pretty complicated." He looks towards the sun gently sinking beneath the rooftops, as though in a memory of his own. "Honour and love are strange bedfellows."

d'Artagnan grins. "I do believe you've been spending quite a bit of time with Aramis."

Porthos laughs, and the two of them spur their horses into a gallop for the last mile to the garrison.

* * *

><p>"I should've told you this before, Athos, I'm sorry."<p>

"Yes, you should've."

"I thought I could handle her, I really did—"

"No doubt you did."

"And I really had no idea of her real identity; superficially, at least, I believed her to be reasonably trustworthy—"

"Ah, of course. The first time you met her, she killed a man and framed you for the murder. Why wouldn't you find someone like that trustworthy?"

"Athos—"

"d'Artagnan, you have had a spy for the Cardinal—a dangerous, bloodthirsty murderer—showing undue interest in you for nearly a year, and you choose to keep this from anyone with any authority for—what? Love? Honour?"

"I was foolish and I've put all of us in danger. If you—if you wish to duel, I understand."

"Save your energy, d'Artagnan. She has hoodwinked men far more experienced and world-weary." A pause. "I do, however, have a plan that would require your utmost co-operation…"

* * *

><p>Porthos silently traces the thick scar running across d'Artagnan's ribs as they lay in bed.<p>

d'Artaganan smacks the hand away, wincing theatrically. "It's still rather tender, you know."

"Does it still hurt? Perhaps I should call Aramis—"

"No, no." He twines their fingers together, brings up Porthos' hands for a quick kiss. "I'm sure it's nothing that you can't handle."

Porthos smiles briefly, but looks altogether lost in thought. "The plan was to have you shot in the arm that night. We were terrified when you collapsed on us—was near killin' me to leave you there on the road like that."

"It all worked out in the end."

"Too well, I should say." Porthos moves his fingers to another scar, an older one—shrapnel from one of Vadim's bombs. "For being men of honour, people believe our frequent shams altogether too well."

"Betrayal is significant only when the trust broken is true and strong." d'Artagnan smiles. "Honour is dictated by whom we serve—and I serve France, and our friendship."

"Fair enough." Porthos leans forward to capture d'Artagnan's lips in a kiss.

_'We have honour.'_

_'… I can live with that.'_

**_Finis_**


End file.
